To You Alone
by maraudings
Summary: Even with her standing right in front of his face he is still having a hard time coming to terms with the concept of "we" meaning her and him. The situation he is in, however, is becoming more clear—it's him, it's Lydia, and it's a city of eight and a half million people. - (canon compliant future fic)
1. i

**title:** to you alone  
 **rating:** t  
 **disclaimer:** teen wolf and its characters belong to mtv.  
 **a/n:** the idea for this actually came to me literally over a year ago however, due to many reasons which include (but are not limited to) writer's block and college, i didn't start planning it until october. then the election happened and, well, let's just say i didn't write anything until the new year. either way, here we are.

this is a canon-compliant future fic based on the premise in the move _before we go_ which i implore you to watch-it's not going to be how this ends up panning out, but the set up is the same. i had originally thought that this would be a complete au in which stiles and lydia are strangers which is closer to the movie, but after the 6a finale i figured out a way to make it work while still existing in the same universe as the show. plus, it's a little more angsty this way which is always a plus for me.

this will be three parts, and cross-posted to ao3 as well so if that's more your style you can find it there.

anyway, that's pretty much all of the house keeping from me. enjoy!

(title from to you alone by tom rosenthal)

* * *

 _\- to you alone -_

 _part i._

* * *

Stiles Stilinski doesn't believe in fate. He doesn't believe in destiny, or providence, or divine will.

It just seems odd to chalk up everything that he's been through as something that was fated to happen. It was fate that he would take his best friend out into the woods that night. It was fate that he became possessed by a pain-feeding, riddled-obsessed void spirit. It was fate that he be wiped from existence for three months. Yeah, sounds like bullshit to him.

Still, he understands the appeal behind the notion. It is on some level calming to think that there is always a plan in place. That no matter what happens or how a situation might unfold, things will eventually work themselves out. Maybe if he tried harder he could adapt that mentality and actually get some sleep at night. Maybe, if he tried, everything he had gone through would have some purpose, be a means to an end that he has yet to discover.

But as it is, fate is a farce.

There was nothing behind his choice to sit in Grand Central concourse in the middle of New York City besides his own free will. He made the decision, about three hours ago now, to come there on his own. That's all it was. Him deciding something and him finding a way to make it happen (not that it was hard—literally just walk and sit and look like you're supposed to be there and you won't be kicked out for loitering). That is how things work. Even after everything he has seen, he could not be convinced that something else is playing a hand in his life.

Fate is a farce.

-x-

Train stations are different than airports in that there typically appears to be less stress perforating the air. There is a larger sense of peace, of overall harmony in the way travelers come and go—sometimes meeting others and sometimes going by in solitary. Noises blend together seamlessly until there is nothing but a dull rumble providing both a sense of comfort and a sense of possibility.

Stiles, sitting on the floor across from the scheduling board, is quickly becoming lulled by the sensory overload. The occasional overhead announcements blended seamlessly into the white noise of laughter and conversation that never seemed to die down even as the hours pressed on into the night pulled his mind into a fog. Footsteps echoed into each other, those closer to Stiles' spot causing minor vibrations that he could feel through the floor. He could almost sense everything that was happening in this space.

From his position on the floor he searches for the clock above the information desk and sees that it reads near 11:00. He exhales slowly. That was that—it's probably over by now. He had made his decision, and there was no way of going back.

His pulls his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans, frowning as the _low battery_ message flashing on its notification screen. He should have grabbed his portable charger from his bag before leaving. But it doesn't matter; he doesn't expect to be out for that much longer. He had already killed most of the time he needed to and in an hour tops he will more likely be back at the apartment and in his makeshift bed on the couch.

At that thought, his back cramps. Stiles arches against the wall an attempt to relieve the muscles sore from the position he had been holding for the past couple hours. Marble was not the most comfortable surface to sit or lean on for two hours if his aching body was anything to go by.

He's considering moving to the opposite side of the concourse for the few seconds of relief it would bring him just to walk there when his attention is suddenly pulled away. From the corner of his eye, a flash of color.

Strawberry blonde, the clattering of heels.

He sits up straighter as she runs past his line of vision, not seeing or even registering his existence. But he saw her. It was hard to think of an instance where he wouldn't have.

The first question, of course, after the few moments of shock, was immediately why was she here? And why was she running?

A dense clatter echoes throughout the station as a cellphone slips from her hand and onto the marble floor. He watches, dumbstruck, as she takes the briefest of pauses before she scoops it back up.

She weaves her way through the crowd towards the descending ramp to the platforms quickly, and he has to strain to keep an eye on her. It can't _actually_ be her, can it? Slowly, still dazed, he stands and watches her begin to disappear down the ramp and out of sight.

Stiles gently hits the marble wall behind him as he slumps back. That could not have been real. He imagined it. Lack of sleep, stress, you name it… he had been through enough in his lifetime for vivid hallucinations of ex-girlfriends in the middle of Grand Central station to seem plausible. Still, he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel his stomach in knots. It was a vision that he had definitely believed.

And yet.

His head snaps to attention when she returns, emerging from the archway in what appeared to be slow motion. He blinks.

Lydia Martin, five foot three, green-eyed and as frantic as he'd ever seen her, is standing forty feet from him. He hasn't seen her in months, hasn't even had a complete conversation with her in almost a year, but something is wrong. That was easy for him to spot even from this distance. He watches her tangle a hand through the roots of her hair and she whips around, searching desperately.

And in moments he's off the wall he has called home for the past two hours and walking straight for her before he can talk himself out of it.

"Lydia?" His voice sounds strange to him as he calls out over the terminal chatter, but she hears him.

She turns to him, a temporary halo of red hair framing her face as she swings herself around. "Stiles?"

She is about as shocked to see him as he was her, but he isn't sure if he was anticipating anything different. She was the last person he would ever think to see today. Still, standing in front of her in the middle of the Grand Central concourse feels like something out of a dream. Nearby someone lets out a laugh, but to him it might have well been from a separate plane of existence.

"What, uh," he clears his throat. "What are you doing here?"

The surprise leaves her face almost instantaneously, and in its place something more anxious and pressed takes hold. "Oh, just missing my train. By _one whole minute_ , if you can believe." She laughs shortly, the hand clutching onto the long strap of her bag falling to her side in defeat. Her hair is longer than he remembers.

"Oh," he says, dumbly. "Sorry."

Lydia just sighs heavily and places her hands at her hips. Her eyes are still searching around the station. "It's just… one more thing, you know?" It's a question Stiles knows he isn't exactly meant to answer, but he knew the feeling. "Hang on," she says, appearing to spot the unoccupied station manager happening to pass nearby and hurrying off to catch him.

Stiles follows, part of him not knowing if he even should and another hating that he feels that way to begin with.

If he had been told in middle school that he would eventually come to date Lydia Martin for almost a year he would not have believed it. Nowhere in his pre-adolescent mind would he find it conceivable that he would befriend her, date her, and then lose her all in the span of three years. But that was the thing about Lydia—everything about her eventually finds a way to surprise him. And here she is again, surprising him, catching him completely off guard with merely her presence.

"Excuse me," Lydia asks the man, who had looked up at her approach. "Was that the last train to New Haven for the night, the one that just left?" _New Haven_. He knows the route she's taking—he has taken it himself several times before. He swallows hard at the memory.

"I'm afraid so miss. We're running limited trains tonight," the man responds. A pained expression appears on Lydia's face, to which he quickly adds. "But our first train in the morning leaves at 6:10. They'll honor your ticket from tonight if the train isn't fully booked."

"Okay, thank you," She turns slowly, looking off into the distance with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Are you okay?" Stiles asks her, even though he was well aware that she was not.

"I just—" she stops, exhaling shakily. He can tell she's putting in a great deal of effort to hide her stress from him. It's a foreign observation.

"Do you have to get back to MIT?" He gestures back to the station manager at her confusion. "I used to do that, last year. Grand Central to Stamford then transfer to the express to Boston, right?"

With that, whatever was already between them in that moment appeared to intensify. _Last year_. Lydia nods, seemingly unable to look at him. "Yep, that's where I was trying to go."

"Oh," is all he gets out. Because that should have been obvious to him. Lydia and MIT went together so perfectly in his mind it should have went without saying. If there was any person out there who belonged in a state of the art research university making breakthroughs in mathematical theory it was Lydia Martin.

"I don't want to bother you…" She trails off, seeming to realize the circumstances of the situation. She then takes him in, giving him a once over. He tries to ignore the slight flip of his gut. "Wait, what are you even doing here?"

"Oh, you know," he can only manage a vague gesture behind him towards the wall he had been sitting against. "Just hanging out." She tilts her head to look past him.

"Huh," is all she says.

There is a prolonged moment of silence between them that Stiles desperately wants to fill and hates that it even has to exist in the first place. The last time they saw each other over Christmas break it had been like this, with the attempts at speaking only breeding silences that would grow and grow until finally someone caved and left. And this time he can see that it isn't going to be him—Lydia is readjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, zipping up her long coat.

"Well," she begins, and his stomach sinks a bit. "I guess I have to go and figure this mess out. It was good running into you, Stiles."

Then with a departing smile and a small wave, she turns and begins to walk away.

And he should let her go—it was not his place to get involved in her life if she did not want him to. If she had wanted him to be involved, she would have asked. That wasn't his role anymore, it wasn't up to him to solve her problems. There was a line they both had to walk if they wanted this, whatever _this_ was and however small it may be, to function at all. Yet he is following after and calling her name before he can stop himself.

"Lydia!"

She turns for a second time, surprised for a second time. "Yes?"

By this time, he's caught up to her. Lydia Martin, standing before him in one of the busiest transit stations in the country. "I want to help you," he says, meaning every word of it. "What's your plan?"

"Oh," she blinks at his declaration. "Uh, well, I'm not sure. I was going to go figure it out."

"Well, when do you have to be back in Boston, by morning?"

"Eleven at the latest," her smile is thin-lipped. "Ideally, anyway."

"Right." He goes to eye the clock face at the center of the concourse. _Less than twelve hours from now_. But they can figure this out. They've solved worse. "Um, can I call you a cab?

"Stiles, you don't have to waste the rest of your night on me," she begins to slowly turn away again, heading for the exit. "Really, I'll be fine."

He just follows her. "Oh yeah? Where are you going to go?"

"Oh, you know…" she trails off, making the same vague hand gestures he had earlier towards the entrance.

"Alright, where are you staying in the city?"

"I'm not, I was only here for the day." She then stops, as if realizing this for the first time. A newly defeated groan escapes her lips. "I don't have money for a room—or a cab, for that matter. It would be somewhere upwards of thousands of dollars for a ride that far."

"Uber?"

The look softens, turns sheepish. "A friend puked in the back of one once so I'm banned."

Stiles bites down a laugh. It would be funnier if the situation didn't feel so urgent. "How about a bus? Those run almost all night, there might be one to Boston in a bit."

"I'm still broke, Stiles."

Stiles frowns. "Could your mom send you some money?"

"It's 2 A.M. in Beacon Hills." She shakes her head adamantly. "No, I'm not going to bother her. This is my mess."

That was something that Stiles understands completely. "Alright, so you're stuck."

Lydia sighs heavily, the short frame of hers sagging under this realization. "I was holding out for that to not be true."

He feels for her, torn between that constant desire to help her that has always been present within him and the newer sense of hesitancy that was creeping in. At this point they have made it outside, standing by the curb near the taxi stand, the chilly night air cutting through Stiles like a knife. "Listen, I'd help you out with a bus or something but I'm kind of strapped for cash as well." Which was a pretty generous claim—his personal financial situation was reliant on student loans and an on campus job in the library which paid very little.

"Stiles, I'd never ask you to."

 _You wouldn't need to_ , he thinks, not quite feeling brave enough to say it out loud. He considers her options, ticking off all the resources he knows about. Then, he thinks of it. "Hey, I can call Scott."

She looks confused. "Scott?"

He's fishing his phone out from the front pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, we both came up for the weekend, he flew in this morning. He's with Kira right now, she has a loft in—"

"Brooklyn, yeah. I've been there before."

"Oh." Stiles is struck for a moment at the concept of not knowing something about her life. "Uh, I'll just call Scott then."

The phone provides something for him to focus on as he listens to it ring, silently urging his best friend to pick up. This was definitely a very weird and very unexpected situation to find himself in on a Friday night in late March. _And it had to be_ this _Friday night in late March_. Out of everyone in this city he could have possibly ran into tonight, it had to be Lydia Martin.

 _"Hey, you've reached Scott McCall—"_

Stiles hangs up. Retries. But the second attempt concludes with the same result.

"Scott's not picking up," he says, with a mixture of both disappointment and satisfaction, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "But he had told me to keep myself busy tonight while he's spending time with Kira, so..."

Lydia cocks an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to spent a night on the streets of New York because they want to get laid?"

"Like we all knew you were coming to town, Lydia."

"Well," Lydia crosses her arms. "What were your plans before you ran into me?"

"I mean, what you saw was the gist of it."

"You were going to hang out in Grand Central until they kicked you out?"

"Yep."

"With no money?"

Stiles nods. "Mhm."

The look she gives him is one he has become so familiar with he could close his eyes and see the exact same expression burned across his eyelids. "Seriously? Scott tells you to let them have Kira's apartment to themselves and your plan was to sit in a train station?"

"I mean..." He considers, briefly, confessing that it had not been his plan at all. That, blocks away, in a ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria, the reason he is even in town in the first place was likely just finishing up. He considers it, and no sooner does he what the inevitable conclusion of that confession would be does he decide against it. "Yeah, yeah that's what happened."

He can tell she's trying extremely hard not to roll her eyes and despite their situation he has to fight a smile. She turns away from him for a second, allowing a short breeze channeled between the surrounding buildings catching her hair before she faces him again. "So, where should we go?"

Even with her standing right in front of his face he is still having a hard time coming to terms with the concept of " _we"_ meaning her and him. The situation he is in, however, is becoming more clear—it's him, it's Lydia, and it's a city of eight and a half million people.

"Well, this _is_ the 'City That Never Sleeps,' Lydia. We could go anywhere we'd like. Except the parks. Probably not a good idea at…" he checks his watch. "…eleven fifteen at night."

She crosses her arms tighter around her body, not offering up any suggestions of her own.

"You cold?" He asks, very much aware of the early Spring chill in the air. It was a cloudless night (not that one could really tell with the city's light pollution) providing little coverage from the breeze—his own hands were buried in the pockets of his jacket. "We can go get coffee. I know a place that's open all day. We can sit and think of a game plan."

She eyes him skeptically.

"Come on, it's just coffee." He gestures up the street with his head, smiling at her.

There had been nothing behind his choice to sit in Grand Central concourse in the middle of New York City. He had made the decision, and he had come here. Standing before Lydia Martin, his hand symbolically outstretched, there is a moment where he wonders what might happen if she says no. It is beginning to dawn on him that they are facing a crossroads in their reborn friendship. And she's looking at him as if she is starting to realize the same thing.

Lydia smiles. "Okay."

She follows after him until they're in walking in step, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat as they walk from the station.

-x-

It was a more-or-less quiet twelve-minute walk.

The conversation between Stiles and Lydia on the way was extremely cordial. _Unusually_ cordial—he was sure the metaphoric tiptoeing between the two was audible even to the occasional passerby. New York City is still buzzing, still lighted from the usual Friday night activities that encompassed the city as the weekend hits its full stride. Even the roads were still seeing an influx of cars, something to which Stiles was particularly thankful for as the noise offered a distraction from the silences that did plague the attempts at conversation.

Stiles looks over at her just as the muffled bass from a passing car begins to fade. "You doing okay?" Lydia's shoulders are noticeably hunched, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her black coat.

"Yep," she says.

She's lying, he knows that. But he lets it drop.

The place he leads them to a small diner with a red façade with lights strung in the front windows. It looks warm and welcoming, and as Stiles slows to reach for the door he can sense Lydia's relief (whether it is from the chill or from him he isn't sure).

It's considerably less empty than Stiles had expected. Despite the narrow space, the diner appears cozy and open with a wide selection of (mostly open) tables and booths to choose from. Immediately he can feel his nose start to thaw.

"For two?" A waitress asks, greeting them at the door. Stiles nods, Lydia says nothing, and they're lead to a booth near the counter. The waitress goes to slide two menus in front of them, but Lydia stops her.

"I'll just have coffee, thank you."

Stiles follows her lead. "Uh, yeah, just coffee please."

While the waitress left to get the coffee pot, they sit in silence—Stiles fiddling with the sugar packets and Lydia looking extremely interested in the wall art. But within a minute they each had a warm cup of coffee and very little to hide behind.

It's not that this is awkward—it is, it definitely is. The general situation of sitting across a table from your ex is arguably something that not a lot of people would find comfortable. But something else sat between them, something heavy. _Unfinished_ , Stiles lets himself think for a moment. He knows it's dangerous to linger on that, he knows it's better to pretend it isn't there. And he had been for the past year. But it is harder to fight it when it was sitting in the booth opposite from him.

But he knows the place they used to be at, the one that is slipping further and further away. Even before senior year they were still able to talk comfortably with each other. They could sit in a silence and not have this insistent need to fill it biting at their heels. They could just enjoy each other's company without a need for filler. He just wants to get back to that. He just wants to sit here, with her, and not think about what he should or can say.

His ears prick, and he is suddenly aware that the back of his neck has grown hot. Lydia had been eyeing him over her cup of coffee, studying him in the silence.

"What?" He eventually prompts.

She gives a small shake of her head. "When I woke up this morning I definitely did not expect to see you today, let alone be sitting in a diner with you."

When Stiles woke up this morning he was too preoccupied trying to iron a dress shirt while hungover, so it is safe to say this was a shared conclusion.

"Out of all places to run into each other," she continues, "we manage to do it in the busiest train station in the country."

Stiles thinks about this as she lifts the cup for another sip, now his turn to watch her. "Why are you trying to get back so badly?"

She blinks. "What?"

"You seemed to want to get back to Boston very badly." He thinks of the look on her face when she was told there were no more trains out tonight. _Desperate._ "Why is that? If you don't mind my asking, I mean."

Lydia looks down. "Oh, like I said, I just have to get back to campus."

He doesn't buy it. "It's not like… a _feeling_ or anything? No banshee senses tingling, no premonitions…?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Lydia shakes her head adamantly. "Actually, since I've settled in at MIT more I haven't been having that many experiences."

Stiles frowns. Something about that bit of information both relieves and concerns him. "Really? Do you think they're fading?"

"No, it's not that. I mean, they still happen from time to time, especially because of how close the general hospital is, but I think it was Beacon Hills. I don't know, it's like being away from there gives me more of a chance to breathe and to focus on something else. I kind of assumed that it would always be as hectic as it was but really it's almost as if it all never happened to being with. If it wasn't for the scars, some weeks it was like I was normal."

It is a concept he had thought about before, many times—usually around 3 A.M. in the midst of another sleepless night. Where would they be, had he not dragged his best friend out into the woods that night? Where would that place him? Or Scott? Or Kira? Or Malia? Allison?

He looks at her. "I get what you mean—Beacon Hills _is_ literally a Beacon. Things felt full speed, all the time."

That gets a small smile from her. "That's one way to put it."

"But, you're fine," he watches her carefully. "Nothing too overwhelming or out of control, right?"

"I'm fine. Still talk to your dad often?" It's a deliberate and obvious attempt to change the subject, but Stiles lets it slide. He wants to pry, but it isn't his place anymore.

"Yeah, talked to him this morning actually." _He was happy,_ he thinks quickly.

"How's the Beacon Hills Sheriff station holding up?"

"Physically? The foundation is still solid. I'm sure the earthquake insurance has yet to be claimed." She gives him that look of hers, and he coughs. "Oh you know, same stuff, different day. But less intense—it seems to have calmed down since we've left. I mean there's still the occasional supernatural interloper, but I don't think that's ever going to stop. Scott's trying to figure out what to do now that Liam and Mason are going to be graduating in a couple months."

"He told me the last time we spoke he thought he might have to bite someone else."

"He doesn't want to do it, Lydia," Stiles says, serious now. "You remember how he struggled with biting Li—" he stops when he sees the waitress approaching their table.

"More coffee?" She holds the pot aloft.

Lydia smiles at her. "Yes, thank you."

Stiles raises his eyebrows as an acknowledgement to his newly refilled cup (which had not needed much), waiting for her to leave. When she does:

"He _hated_ turning Liam. He knows someone has to watch over Beacon Hills, he knows someone has to be there, but he doesn't seem to want to do it."

"I don't blame him, it's a lot to be putting on somebody." Lydia says while reaching for the sugar packets. "He would be picking whose life would change forever."

"I'm worried he's going to feel like he needs to move back." Stiles picks at the edge of the table at this, finding himself unable to look up. "Like he needs going to quit vet school and go back to Beacon Hills."

Lydia frowns. "He can't do that."

"You know he would. If he felt he needed to, he would do it in a second."

She releases a sigh. "He takes on too much sometimes."

 _They all did_ , he thinks.

She takes a long sip during the silence that settles between them. There is a dance they're both preforming right now, Stiles can feel it. Both tiptoeing around each other, stepping up to a line but never crossing it. Talking around what was staring them right in the face. He itched with the unspoken.

"How did you know of this place?" She eventually asks, starting it up again.

"Uh, I stumbled onto it last year with Scott while we were drunk," Stiles scratches the back of his head. "Well, I was drunk. He was there to watch me."

"Watch you?"

Stiles nods, lips pressed together. He is finding it difficult to look her in the face, and instead lets his gaze fixate on the now _very_ intriguing handle of his coffee cup. Lydia does not press it—unusual for her, normally. If Lydia wanted to know something she would pry it out. But perhaps this did not exactly constitute a normal circumstance.

(She doesn't say anything more about it, so he supposes that confirms that suspicion.)

There is a soft ' _tap, tap'_ of Lydia's rings against a fired ceramic coffee cup. "So," she exhales. "Are we allowed to sit here all night?"

"Pretty much, they don't close. But I thought you had to get back tonight?"

"Unless if we rob a bank I don't see us getting enough money for a cab or car anytime soon, so I guess I'm staying here." Lydia looks down, toying with the zipper on her jacket. "You don't have to stay with me if you don't want."

She keeps trying to get rid of him. On some level he completely understands why she's doing it. When was the last time they really talked? Christmas break was near unbearably uncomfortable with the lengths they both went in order to avoid being alone together—dipping out of kitchens to dodge cleanup duties, ducking to the bathroom when they were the last two awake at movie nights. Admittedly that had been mostly his own behavior, but he hadn't exactly given her a reason to spend time around him. But it was hard for him to adjust to these new boundaries, hard for him to balance his own feelings with the new lines drawn in the sand.

But tonight, he's willing to figure it out.

"Lydia," he starts. She looks up at him. "I am going to help you get home tonight. Okay?"

She smiles at him. After a moment, perhaps one too long, he has to break their eye contact.

"So," she says, forcing his attention back to her, "Clyde. What's the plan?"

There's a particular glint in her eye that causes his heart to skip and breath to hitch, and like a train, it hits him.

"Wait. I have a friend that might be able to help us," Stiles says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "From the criminal justice program. He's in town, might be able to help us." On his phone screen, the low battery alert flashes. _Shit_. He had forgotten about that. "Uh, we should probably just head to where he is and save my battery incase Scott calls."

"Which is where?"

"The Waldorf-Astoria." This he is absolutely sure of. "It's only a couple of blocks west, easy to walk to."

"Alright." Lydia gathers up her coat from its spot in the booth next to her. "Should we just go now?"

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles gets to his feet, leaving a five on the table for their coffee. At this Lydia pauses.

"Wait." She digs in her handbag and comes up seconds later with a fistful of quarters. "Laundry money. I can _at least_ pay for my coffee, Stiles."

"All I had was a five, Lydia." He tucks his wallet back into his pocket. "It's fine, just pay me back later."

She reaches for his wrist and turns his palm face up. The change falls into his hand, still cold. "Here. There should be the three seconds of interest included, too." Her eyes, green and lively, shine at him before she turns for the door.

Stiles follows, thinking of how warm the skin of his wrist feels.


	2. ii

apologies for the delay in updating. this did kind of get away from me a bit and is around 9k words- whoops. i'm hopeful that the final part won't take as long to get up, but we'll see.

also, title change! i thought it fit a little better.

note: i've never been to new york, and while all locations are real there are definitely some artistic liberties taken with the descriptions. sorry if that bothers you.

and **thanks to** anon and laurenthehunter for their reviews on the first part. it meant a lot!

* * *

 _part ii._

* * *

Stiles has found himself in stupid situations in the past, both of his own accord and the nature of life of an adolescent in Beacon Hills. But this is on him, a hundred percent. Because no one else can claim responsibility for this one.

As they walked, side-by-side, he can't help but wonder how big of a mistake this would turn out to be. Yes, he wants to be around Lydia Martin—he always wants to be around Lydia Martin. But he knows it's dangerous. Whatever little progress he may have made towards being okay with not being around her since he last saw her is being torn up into little pieces and sprinkled along the sidewalk with each step they take. And as he feels himself stomping the last of it into the pavement, he can't help but dread what it's going to feel like in the morning.

This is turning out to be simultaneously one of the best and worst night of his life.

"How is MIT?" Stiles asks as they come to a street crossing. "Proved the Riemann Hypothesis yet?"

"Not quite," Lydia says, her breath clouding as it leaves her mouth. "But check back with me in about a month. I think I've almost got it."

He smiles at her jest. "Because it's you, I'll come back in a week. I'm sure you'll have it done by then." Stiles is still looking at her as the smile slips from her face. "What?"

"Nothing," she says while biting her lip. "How are the criminal justice studies going?"

Stiles gets the message. "Oh, you know, just one big break away from solving the D.B. Cooper case. But that's after I catch the Zodiac Killer, of course."

Lydia smiles again. "No, seriously, how is it?"

"It's…" Stiles trails off, considering his words. "It's really good. I'm learning a lot—I feel like we've finally gotten past the introductory stuff, y'know, now that we're almost two years into it. It's challenging sometimes, but in a good way."

"That's good. I'm happy you're enjoying it," Lydia says, and he knows she means it. But any warmth the sentiment brings him is wiped away as soon as they come upon their destination.

The Waldorf Astoria is quite honestly the last building Stiles wants to see tonight. And yet, it's the one they need to be at. It looks rich and daunting and he could throw up right there and now on its curb front. But he must go in, he knows this. His reminder steps up confidently to the building, strawberry blonde hair bouncing.

His fingers begin tapping against the outer seam of his jeans. A knot builds in the pit of his stomach. Stiles pauses just as the doorman opens the door for them.

Lydia, seemingly noticing that he isn't next to her, turns around a few steps ahead. "You okay?" she asks.

He coughs, trying to hide his anxiety. "Yeah, fine. Let's go."

But the nerves don't subside as they climb the interior stairs and enter the main foyer of the building. His worn Nikes feel uncomfortably out of place on the marble flooring, his fingers rise to toy with the zipper of his jacket. Lydia, he notices, slows once she's crossed over the mosaic design at the center of the space, admiring the image with interest.

"Your friend is staying here?" Lydia almost balks. "Must be nice."

"Come on." He's desperate just to get this over with. He leads the way up two more stairs, past the front lobby and into the elevator bay. He is already familiar with this path, and Lydia doesn't ask any questions until they step out on the third floor and are greeted with the sight of a hotel employee consulting a clipboard in the foyer.

"Excuse me," Stiles says, "Has the—"

He is cut off almost immediately.

"This event is over," the concierge agent says in a deadpan, not looking up from his clipboard. "In fact, all ballrooms are closed off to the public at this time. Please feel free to return tomorrow if you'd like, given there are no reservations, and you can have a look around then."

"We're not tourists," Stiles matches the deadpan tone for tone. "I was supposed to meet someone after this was over but got lost track of time. How long as this been over for?"

"About forty-five minutes, get a new watch."

Stiles does not respond, turning back to Lydia with eyebrows raised.

"Your friend is staying here, isn't he? Have the front desk call up to his room." She suggests.

They are back in the main lobby within minutes, but the desk is now unmanned. Stiles and Lydia are the only occupants of the space, a massive clock at the center of the room ticking the seconds by almost eerily. Their steps echo as they cross the space.

"There's no bell," Lydia observes, approaching the counter.

Stiles shrugs. "Should we shout?"

"Let's just sit and wait," Lydia suggests. "I'm sure they just stepped out for a second."

She takes a seat at one of the upholstered arm chairs at the center of the room and he follows, sliding into the chair next to hers. The uneasy feeling in his gut had subsided a little in the last few minutes, but he is still having a difficult time sitting still.

Lydia, for her part, is having a difficult time taking her eyes off the details of the room. "I feel like I'm in an Art Deco fever dream."

He supposes he should tell her. She could probably piece it together within seconds of meeting Thomas anyway, so it might as well come from him first. At the very least, he thinks, he should tell her why he was in town in the first place.

"So, listen," Stiles exhales slowly, turning in his seat to face her. She tears her gaze away from the octagonal clock to look at him. "I wasn't actually just supposed to sit at Grand Central all night. Scott and Kira planned their night because they knew I had plans anyway, and it's why I knew Thomas would be here. There was a career seminar for Criminal Justice majors tonight that I was supposed to be at, but…" He trails off, unable to finish. But Lydia just smiles softly.

"I know," she says. Stiles blinks.

"What?"

Lydia points behind him, where a sign reading, " _George Washington University Criminal Justice Career Seminar and Banquet, 7:00 Jade Room"_ is propped near an ornate floral arrangement. Stiles turns back to her. "Huh," is all he gets out.

"So," She rests her head in her palm, elbow propped up on the armrest of the chair. "Why didn't you go?"

He considers telling her everything, eyes running over her wide eyes and long hair. But he looks away when he responds, hands picking at his nails. "I just forgot my resume and letters of recommendation, and there wasn't a point in going without them."

"Your campus is _literally_ two blocks from the White House," Lydia says, pushing right past his lie. "Wouldn't it make more sense to have this seminar back in D.C., where there is more access to national security offices? Internship opportunities?"

"Hey, I don't plan things, I just receive the invitations. Besides, if I wasn't here, what would you be doing right now?"

She raises an eyebrow and shrugs a shoulder. His point is understood.

From the corner of his eye, Stiles spots movement at the front desk. A woman emerges from the back room and takes a seat at one of the computers. Motioning to Lydia, Stiles rises from his chair and makes a beeline for her station.

"Excuse me," he says. "I have a friend who's staying here, Thomas Alcott. Would you be willing to tell me what room—"

"We don't give out that information."

The response was given so suddenly and automatically that Stiles is taken aback. "Uh, right, but I know him and can probably call up there—"

"Sorry, can't help you. You'll need to get the room number from him personally, but since you're friends that shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

"My phone is about to die."

The desk clerk shrugs.

"Listen, I was supposed to be here for that criminal justice thing, alright?" He points over Lydia's head to the sign on the table. "I couldn't make it, but my friend Thomas attended and he's staying at this hotel with _fifteen_ of my other classmates who can afford this castle. If you would just _tell me_ what room—"

"Sorry, against our policy."

Lydia steps up from behind him, looping her arm around one of Stiles' and begins to pull him away from what she could no doubt sense was about to become a less than cordial customer service exchange. "We understand, but thank you for your time," she says sweetly.

"No, we don't understand," Stiles whispers to Lydia as they begin to turn away. "It's absurd."

"Do you want to be kicked out?" She hisses back. "Just play nice, we'll figure something else out."

 _But there_ isn't _anything else,_ he wants to tell her. It was either this or he couldn't help her at all.

"Hey! Are you looking for your college friends? The ones in overdone business casual and reeking of pomposity?"

Stiles and Lydia look up at the new voice.

A bellhop leans casually against the other end of the counter. He grins at them expectedly, waiting for a response.

"Uh," Stiles manages, sparing a glance to Lydia. "I think so? Yes?"

"Does your particular friend not know how to tip?" The bellhop adjusted his cap. "That might narrow it down for me."

The desk clerk glares. "You're not supposed to talk bad about guests—" But the bellhop waves her off.

"If you make me carry all five of your suitcases up to your room one by one _by hand_ and then don't tip me _at all_ I think I'm granted a little right to complain."

The woman grumbles, scooting her chair back up to her computer in a clear sign of distancing herself from the conversation altogether.

"Was he tall? Blonde hair?" Stiles presses.

"Bottle blonde, you mean? Yes, sir. He and few other of your mutual friends went too hard on the complimentary drink service and got themselves quietly escorted out of the ballroom—which is odd because the drink service was punch. They stumbled out the door a few minutes after that."

"Do you know where they went?"

The bellhop shrugs, looking nonplused. "I think they slurred something about looking for a club. They were already pretty wasted, so I'm not sure how far they could have made it."

"Oh, great," Stiles presses his palms together. "Nice. How fantastic for them."

"You wouldn't happen to know what clubs are in the area and which way to go to get there, would you?" Lydia steps up to his side and he's taken aback by a sudden sense of déjà vu. They always had been a good team, even in instances as small as this.

The bellhop exhales. "There isn't anything around here within walking distance so they probably cabbed it somewhere, maybe in Midtown. I made some suggestions, but really, they could be anywhere."

That idea didn't sound ideal in the slightest. "Well, where did you suggest?" Stiles asks.

The bellhop doesn't respond, only extends a gloved hand—palm upward, fingers rubbing together. Stiles scoffs before he can stop himself. "Really," he deadpans.

The bellhop merely shrugs.

"Oh, we don't really have any money on us," Lydia says, almost meekly. "That's why we need to find our friend."

He simply shrugs, retracting his hand. "Well, then you'll have to find him on your own."

Stiles huffs, reaching for his wallet. "Listen, buddy, all I have is a nearly empty metro pass and an almost filled Starbucks punch card from Christmas."

Lydia drops two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of change onto the counter. "I have two dollars and…" she considers the pile. "…thirty-one cents?"

Taking a moment to look at the pair of them, the third man merely blinks. "Wow, you guys really are broke. Keep that," he pushes Lydia's money back to her, "and I'll just help you out of the kindness of my heart, okay?"

"How considerate," Stiles quips. He is ignored as the bellhop reaches for a pen and a tourist's map of the city from a display behind the desk.

"The one I recommended is called the Marquee—they typically have better DJs. It's a bit expensive for my taste but your friends are rich so I figured they'd be fine. But it is over in Chelsea," he starred a street corner in the western part of the city, "so unless you're both trained marathon runners you should probably get a car."

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. "Great. Know any that run for free?"

"Charge it to your friend's room." The bellhop shrugged. "You said he was rich, right? We have a car service. In fact, he might have taken it earlier." At this suggestion, the clerk from earlier lets out an audible noise or irritation. It is ignored by all of them.

But however morally questionable the plan was, it was still a plan, and before Stiles can respond Lydia has taken the map from their guide. "Great, thank you so much. You've really helped us out, you have no idea." Her eyes are beaming from what Stiles assumes must be the prospect of going back to Boston. "Could you call a car for us?"

"Sure," the bellhop nods, reaching for the phone. "Just do me a favor and borrow a little extra on my behalf."

Stiles and Lydia step away from the counter. As soon as they were out of earshot, Lydia smiles at him. "That was nice of him—out luck is actually starting to turn around." Stiles just smiles at her excitement, the first of it he has seen all night. But no sooner had it arrived did it leave again, worry now causing her brows to crease. "Do you think your friend Thomas will mind that we're charging a car to his account?"

Shrugging, Stiles slipped his hands into the pocket of his jacket. "Doubtful. His parents pay for most of his credit cards. It's probably why he was one of the few of us who could actually afford to stay at this hotel."

The answer appears to satisfy her, but her brow remains knitted.

"Come on, it's fine. And if he _is_ mad I'll deal with it."

"But you shouldn't have to—"

"But I will," he simply says. "You can mail me a check later if you feel you really need to."

Lydia looks as if she's about to protest again, but the return of the bellhop informing them of the car's arrival prevents her. Stiles sends her what he hopes was a comforting look before leading her back out onto the street.

He is not ashamed to admit to himself that if needed to he would do more for her.

But if he thought the issue was completely resolved he was mistaken, for not soon after the sleek town car provided for them at Thomas' expense pulled away from the Waldorf-Astoria did Lydia turn to him again.

"I'll ask for the money myself," her voice is low, no doubt feeling just as conscious of the suited driver behind the wheel as Stiles is. "I can pay him back later, it's fine."

"Lydia, really, it isn't a big deal," he says. "I've borrowed money from him before. There shouldn't be an issue."

"Stiles," Lydia puts out her arm, the light pressure from her grip feeling heavy at the crook of his elbow. " _I'll_ borrow the money. You don't need to put yourself on the line like that for me, okay?"

He lets out a small scoff. "Lydia, I met Thomas in an entry level Biology class, not a darkened alleyway. He's not a loan shark, we're friends. It's a non-issue." She still looks skeptical. Stiles tilts his head, exhaling. "He's also not a crossroads demon, and I don't have to sell my soul to get you your money, okay?" He can feel the driver's ears perk up at his remark.

"Don't poke fun," she chides. "And besides, how would you know for sure?"

"I think after a year of being his friend I would know."

-x-

The façade of Marquee is set among industrial-looking buildings. At first, Stiles is convinced the driver dropped them off at the wrong address. But the pulsing bass reverberating onto the streets was a dead giveaway for the club's presence.

"Still have your fake?" He asks Lydia, reaching for his wallet. She pulls hers out wordlessly, and together they head for the front door marked only by the small line headed by an imposing bouncer.

"There's probably going to be a cover charge," Lydia says to him as they get in line. "Can we make that?"

"Probably, I have fifteen dollars that I neglected to tell that bell hop about. That with your two thirty-one, we should be set." He grins at her.

The line moves at a relatively past pace and within moments they are at the front. The bouncer inspects their I.D.s with minor interest, handing them back almost instantly after they had given them to him.

"She can come in," he points to Lydia, but stops Stiles before he can continue forward, "but there's a ten-dollar cover for you."

Stiles wordlessly hands the bouncer two of his five dollar bills. He then joins Lydia in walking through the open door and into the darkened club entry.

He feels Lydia's hands on his arm, her breath tickling the side of his neck and she leans in to him. "I'll pay you back for that, too."

"Hey, that was for me," he says back. At their new proximity he can smell her hair. "Don't worry about it."

"But you wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for me," she counters.

"Lydia—" She stops him.

"Stiles, just shut up and take the money, okay?"

He does just that.

The short passage from the club's entrance opens to a wrap-around balcony overlooking the main dance floor. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a massive LED screen dominated the far-side wall. With the strobing lights and what looked to be the work of a fog machine it was hard to make out any details in the crowded dance floor below. Sties leans over the railing, Lydia following suit.

"So what is he wearing?" Lydia asks, still leaning into Stiles to make her voice heard over the music.

"Don't know!" he shouts back.

"Who would he be with?"

"Don't know!" Stiles searches the dance floor below eagerly, looking for any trace of his friend. "But he shouldn't be too difficult to spot, especially if he's already had something to drink."

"We should go down," she suggests, "it's hard to see anything from up here." He nods, and together they head for the stairwell.

When they reach the ground floor, the thickness of the crowd becomes even more apparent. "Stick close," he says into Lydia's ear. He feels her arm go to gently grab at his elbow.

He guides her through the club, navigating the perimeter of the dance floor while trying to search the faces in the strobing lights for anyone he recognizes. He isn't positive how many from his class would be here, if they even are at all, but what he did know what that is they all they would likely be congregated together. And it was a good bet, considering how he knows Thomas to be a social partier.

His assumptions pay off, for a little while after starting their search he starts to make out his name being called from the grouping of tables at the far corner.

"Stilinski! Hey, Stilinski!"

He turns to the sound. A group of his classmates, congregating around a table just at the edge of the dance floor, wave him over. At the front of this effort is Thomas Alcott, all tall, blonde, and lean muscle.

Stiles looks back at Lydia, who's grip on his arm had slackened. "Come on," he says, and leads her to their table.

"Stiles, hey," a sandy blonde boy, Jake, is the first to greet them as they approach the table. "Good to see you. We just ran out of drinks."

"That's okay," Stiles responds. "We're not really here to party."

"Hey man, where were you today?" Thomas is yelling over the music, clapping an arm on Stiles' shoulder. The question goes ignored.

"Can we talk please? I need your help." He gestures behind him to Lydia, who nods to Thomas in greeting. The gesture is returned enthusiastically.

Thomas leans into Stiles' ear. Stiles winces at the smell of alcohol assaulting his senses. "Hey, who is _that_?"

"An old friend," Stiles avoids turning around to gauge Lydia's reaction to his friend's antics. "But, listen, hey—" He has to regain Thomas' attention after the other raises his arms to call for another drink. "We need your help."

"Sure!" Thomas is enthusiastic at the idea. "Anything for you, man, especially after that Criminal Law final. What is it, what do you need?"

Stiles sighs and leans in closer. "Money. We need to get a car to Boston, tonight."

Thomas looks confused. "Boston? Why on earth do you want to go to Boston tonight? The party is _here_ , Stiles! Does this have something to do with why you didn't show up tonight?"

"No," Stiles says hurriedly. He just needs to get Thomas to focus. "Unrelated, but it's kind of urgent."

"Here," Thomas thrusts a shot glass full of vodka he snatched from the table into Stiles' hand. "Drink this."

"Yeah I don't think that's a good-"

" _Drink it._ "

Stiles obeys, downing the shot.

"Anyway, Thomas," Lydia cuts in, having to lean forward to be heard over the thundering bass. "Can you help us out or not?"

Taking another shot himself, Thomas winces. "If you mean money, I'm sorry but I can't help you there. I'm a little strapped for cash myself. Do you remember my new step-mother, Stiles? Well she apparently thinks that I should have to _earn_ my weekly allowance. What kind of bullshit… We _all know_ she's just using his money to fix her face, which honestly needs it but, still. That's _our_ money. Anyway, I was told they are only helping with the hotel bill for this weekend as it's 'bettering my education' or whatever."

Stiles exchanges a look with Lydia who appears to be fighting down a smile.

"But you know, Stiles," Thomas wags a finger in his face, looking pained. "You know I'd _a hundred percent_ help you if I could. You're my bro, Stiles."

"You're his _bro_ ," Lydia repeats at Stiles, low enough for only him to hear. She's grinning. "How sweet."

He ignores her. "It's okay Thomas, thanks anyway. Could we at least have your room key to the hotel? We could use a place to crash for a while, until we figure out what to do next."

" _Oh,_ " Thomas looks between Stiles and Lydia with suggestively, smiling. "Well if you opened with _that_ …"

"That's not—" But Thomas is already fishing for his wallet in the back pocket of his pants, oblivious. Stiles quickly shoots Lydia an apologetic glace but thankfully she seems to be more amused than annoyed.

With some difficulty, Thomas retrieves his room key and holds it aloft triumphantly. "Found it! Here," he pushes it into Stiles' hand. "Take it. 'Crash for a while,' or whatever you kids want to do. I probably won't be back for a while. Right guys?" The group of criminology students around them let out a loud "woo!" at his statement.

"I—" Stiles stops. "You know what, never mind. Thanks for the key, Thomas." He doesn't hear him as Stiles turns away, facing a grinning Lydia.

"What, you don't want to stay?" Her eyes are gleaming, her teasing mood almost contagious.

"What, you do? Be my guest." He gestures back behind him to where Thomas is pounding Jello shots. Lydia winces at the scene.

" _Ooh_ , those won't be fun for him in the morning."

"They most definitely will not." He watches the spectacle for a second. "But, you know, not normally like this. He's way less obnoxious when he's sober, please believe me."

Lydia eyes him under the club's lighting. "There isn't anything for you to defend him for, he's just having fun."

"No, I know," Stiles says. "It's just that he's helped me out a lot. He's a good person."

"Stiles," Lydia says. "You don't need to convince me. I trust your judgement. And he handed his room key over which is really all the proof I care about tonight."

A look is shared between them, one that Stiles is having a hard time interpreting in the club's lighting. She tilts her head, signaling to leave, but they're stopped before they can make it even two steps.

"You guys are leaving?" It's Thomas again, who had apparently looked up and noticed they had started to leave. "Oh, come on! Stick around for a bit. It's not like you're going anywhere anyways. I've hardly seen you all day, Stiles!"

"Oh, that's okay," Stiles says as Thomas comes bounding back at them. "We should really be going—we're kind of beat."

"Stiles, we've talked about this." Thomas claps him on the back. "We've had many conversations last year about your need to loosen up. And I haven't even gotten to know your friend yet. Lydia, was it?" At her nod, he is newly energized. "Great! See, I already know her name. Progress."

They look at each other, considering.

"One drink?" Lydia proposes, leaning into his ear to be heard. Her breath tickles his neck. "As he said, it's not like I'm going anywhere tonight."

"Alright," Stiles notices how the flash of a red strobe light lit up her hair. "If you want."

" _Woo!_ " Thomas shouts for a second time. His call sets off a chain reaction in the group of people immediately around them. "'Atta boy, Stilinski! What do you guys want, vodka shots? We have more of those. Well," he looks back at the table, considering, " _had_ more of those. I guess they've gone already. But we can get more! We're on a tab. Well, Jake's on a tab because I'm newly _broke_ , as I told you."

"I can go," Lydia offers.

Thomas lights up at her suggestion. " _Great!_ You can say you're with Jake and they'll put it under Jake's tab. He won't care, probably."

With a final departing glance, Lydia turns and melds into the crowd as she makes her way to the bar.

"So, is that _Lydia_ Lydia," Thomas says lowly into Stiles' ear. "Or is her name just a coincidence?"

Stiles, who had been watching the top of Lydia's head as she fights her way through the dancing mass, turns back to Thomas as if cold water had been poured down his shirt. "What?"

"Please, you think I don't remember?" Thomas scoffs, tapping the side of his head. "I may be a little drunk right now but not enough to put the memory of last year's spring semester out of my head. In fact, _you_ were the one who was a little drunk most of the time—"

"Okay, okay," Stiles cuts him off. The music in the club changed to something with a faster tempo. "First, I wasn't drunk _most_ of the time. And second, yes, that is Lydia, but _don't_ —" He has to grab his friend's arm to regain his attention, as Thomas had excitedly turned to look after her. "—say anything to her about last year. Pretend you've never heard of her, okay?"

Thomas gives him a look which could only be described as one of disappointment. "Stiles, you're killing me. I can't even try to help you out at all?"

"There is honestly nothing you could do that could help the situation. I don't even think there _is_ a situation. I just ran into her tonight and said I'd help her get back to Boston."

Thomas says nothing, staring at Stiles with eyebrows raised.

"Stop it," Stiles says.

Lydia returns to the table, following in front of a bartender carrying a tray full of shot glasses filled with a clear liquid.

"Nice." Jake leans forward and takes one after it's slid onto the table. Everyone around them follows his lead, and Thomas holds his aloft.

"A toast!" He says. "To Stiles and his friend Lydia!"

Stiles shoots him a look as they go to clink glasses but his attention is pulled away by a brief flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Lydia, foregoing the toast, downs her first shot, picks up a second glass, and Stiles watches it disappear almost as fast as the first.

"More," Lydia says, placing the second empty shot glass down with a small ' _clink_ '. "Let's get more."

"Yeah, that's the spirit!" Thomas says. He looks to Stiles excitedly. "I like her."

Stiles says nothing, watching as Lydia disappears towards the bar again. He takes his own shot, wondering if perhaps he should be concerned as warmth spreads down his throat and into his stomach.

"She's great," Thomas says, re-echoing his sentiment from earlier. "Really. Why do you two even need to leave so badly?"

"Because…" then he trails off, because truthfully he doesn't exactly know what this is all for. Lydia, of course, had been enough of a reason for him to tag along in the first place. "She just has to get back, so I'm helping."

Thomas, for his credit, doesn't say anything in response to that.

Lydia returns with the second full tray of shots. She takes only one this time—not that Stiles is paying attention or anything. What he does happen to notice, however, is her lack of engagement with other people. She stares out across the dance floor on the fringe of his group of peers, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, expression blank but eyes swimming. Thomas and Jake start to talk about job offers and bureau representatives and Stiles finds himself inching towards her instead.

"Is it okay if we leave?" Stiles asks her. "I'm getting tired."

She only nods to this, but he takes it as it is.

"Hey, we're going to head out," Stiles says to Thomas and Jake.

"Alright," Jake says. "We'll see you Monday!"

"Thanks for the help," Stiles says to Thomas.

"Bye Lydia!" He waves at her, and the gesture is returned halfheartedly.

Stiles extends his hand behind him. "Come on." She slides her palms against his, the skin-on-skin contact shooting tingles up the length of his arm which he decides could be attributed to the base of the club's music.

-x-

The ride back to the hotel was shaping up to be a quiet one. Lydia had slid across the seats, detached her hand from his, and has been sitting quietly looking out the window ever since. Stiles, for his part, has been staring out his own window wondering what he should say. But the pressure is taken off him:

"Sorry for being a downer," she says, breaking the silence. "I don't know, I just all of a sudden…" She trails off, and she's still looking out the window when he turns to study her. She looks almost defeated, and Stiles can't figure out if that's a fact that surprises him or is a feature he expected.

"I know," he says, and then doesn't know how to explain it further.

Lydia turns towards him with the softest hint of a smile on her face. A second goes by, and then, "I guess I'm not going home tonight, am I?"

Her use of her word "home" stops him for a moment, but the feeling passes as he realizes she's probably right. "No, it doesn't look like it. I'm sorry."

Her expression goes unreadable. "Well," she sighs. "At least we have somewhere to rest. Until Scott calls, or Thomas comes back."

Stiles wishes there was something more he could do. But when you're twenty and broke there isn't much you can offer someone apart from yourself. And as they climbed the front steps of the Waldorf-Astoria for a second time, a thought crosses Stiles' mind that he wishes almost instantly he could take back.

He can't really look at her directly as they stand on opposite sides of the elevator (Thomas' room is on the twentieth floor) and instead he's focused on the ornate carpet pattern on the floor.

"You know, I don't remember you or me telling Thomas my name," she says suddenly, eyeing him from the other side of the elevator. "And yet he just knew it."

"I didn't introduce you?"

She shakes her head. "I don't remember it if you did."

He shrugs, not knowing how to proceed. Of course, Thomas had no doubt come to know her name very well over the past year he has been Stiles' friend. He was there when they broke up, he was there throughout most of last year.

"Anyway," Lydia continues, "he seems nice. A bit of a lush, but nice."

"Uh, you had three shots in what, ten minutes?"

"Were you counting?" She doesn't look mad, just playful, her already bright eyes glinting with mischief. It's contagious—he can feel the corners of his mouth pulling outwards. "It's not like I have anywhere to be. And I think you had three too, so I don't know why you're on my ass about it."

Stiles scoffs. "It was just an observation. And I had two."

She shakes her head. "No, three. Thomas gave you one when we first got there and then you had one during both rounds."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, now who's counting?"

She smiles, but before she has a chance to respond the elevator slows at the 14th floor and the doors open.

A man is revealed, standing sheepishly in a wrinkled tuxedo and clutching a pair of dress shoes. "'Evening," he greets, stepping into the elevator. Lydia scoots along the back of the elevator to make room, coming to stand next to Stiles. Their new passenger presses the button for the 19th floor, and the doors close again.

"Rehearsal dinner," the man says as a sort of explanation. A smirk plays long his clean-shaven face. "Just getting to know the bridal party."

Stiles takes in his wrinkled attire, the bowtie hanging untied around his neck, the socked feet, and has to hide a scoff of laughter with a cough. Beside him, he can feel Lydia turn into his arm. He looks down to see that it's an attempt to hide her own smile.

The elevator slows once more as they reach the 19th floor. The man raises his shoe-less hand as a goodbye as he steps out.

"Have a good night," he says, stumbling over his feet. "And use protection, take it from me, it's not worth it. _Oh shi—"_

The elevator doors, which had been closing during his words of farewell, cut off his expletive. Sitting on the floor of the elevator was a single dress shoe, left behind by its careless owner.

Lydia burst out laughing. Stiles, unable to resist at the sight of the lone shoe and the infections sound of her laughter, follows soon after.

-x-

They're still laughing by the time they make it to Thomas' room, so hard that Stiles has a difficult time aiming the room key into the slot on the door. But he manages, and they both sloppily spill through the doorway and into the room.

Whatever that saying is about how every hotel room is the same never considered the Waldorf Astoria, which is something Stiles figures out even before Lydia flips the light switch on. The window on the opposite wall was the first thing he noticed—tall, dominated, framed with curtains and hinting at the city and its lights in the streets beyond. Next was the bed, large and fitted with white sheets and pillows that looked so fluffed and inviting that Stiles' eyes drooped at the sight. Thomas' bags were already placed around the upholstered armchair and loveseat sitting area in the corner, a closed laptop resting on the desk.

"Well," Stiles says, closing the door behind them. "It's a far cry from the diner."

Lydia immediately throws herself on the bed, sighing with content. "This feels incredible. My feet have been killing me."

"It's the shoes," Stiles says just as she kicks the heels off. "I told you years ago, invest in more flats."

"Every inch of height is worth it, Stiles."

Stiles walks over the window, shaking off his jacket as he crosses the room. The room's view overlooked Park Avenue, a street that was sparse at this time of night.

"I feel like I've been awake for days," Lydia remarks from the bed. She has her arms spread wide, the white of the down duvet contrasting with her hair. "Is it even still Friday?"

Stiles checks his watch and he leans against the wall to unlace his own shoes. "It's been Saturday for a while, if you want to get technical."

She's propped up on her elbows when he looks back in her direction, seemingly watching him with interest. "What?" he questions, suddenly feeling insecure under her stare.

"You don't have to stand, you know." Lydia pats the open half of the bed next to her. "Come enjoy the five-star accommodations. It really is quite something."

Lydia Martin, inviting him to bed. He thinks he should point out that the room has plenty of chairs but his shoes are off and jacket down before he can think himself out of it. He moves like it's a dream, the alcohol from earlier still warming his veins and fueling his motions forward.

She settles back down once his head hits one of the soft, feathered pillows. They're laying side by side, both staring up at the ceiling above them. It was like sinking into a dream.

"Wow," he remarks. "So this is how the other side lives."

"Yep," she says, voice as close as it has been all night. "I'd kill for a bed this nice in my apartment. But I guess I probably shouldn't be telling a future federal agent that."

"Yeah." His forced chuckle dies in his throat. "Listen, I am really sorry you can't get back tonight."

"Don't worry about it," she says. "It was my fault to begin with. I'm sorry for hijacking your entire night of sitting in a train station while our friends hook up."

She is clearly deflecting, but the look on her face in the station is stuck with Stiles. The desperation, the panic that was present on her face was something he isn't certain he will ever be able to wipe from his mind. And he couldn't fix it. "Right. Well, I could tell it meant a lot to you. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

"Mm," Lydia hums in response, the frequency of which Stiles can feel in his bones.

He lets that feeling carry over into the silence that settles between them. He feels warm. Maybe it's the effects of the alcohol from earlier on his nerves, but he feels looser. Something within him, building from the events of the day and of this night, wants to be set free. But he can't quite put a finger on what it is. Yet before he can classify it, before he can allow himself to make a rational decision on how much of an influence he was going to allow this feeling, he is speaking.

"Lydia, can I tell you something?"

He can feel her head turn on the pillow next to him, feel her eyes as she takes in his profile. "Of course you can."

He licks his lips—his mouth feels dry. "I've always felt like I knew what I was going to do for the rest of my life, but…" he trails off as the words start to come at him too fast for his brain to process. He has never vocalized this before, he realizes. He's unfamiliar with what it takes to get it out.

"Stiles?"

And she says his name so gentle and so caring that he is briefly convinced that he has been hallucinating the entire night. What has he done to deserve her appearing back in his life out of nowhere?

He tries again, and this time he can feel a stronger sense of surety in his voice. "When I said I didn't go to the job fair because of a forgotten resume and letters of recommendations, that wasn't the entire story."

There's the shortest of pauses, then:

"You're kidding," Lydia deadpans.

Stiles can feel himself smiling (he still couldn't get anything past her) but doesn't respond to her teasing. "I couldn't walk into that ballroom today because I couldn't pull myself away from this nagging feeling I have that I'm not cut out for it. I know we all act like Scott is the only one crazy enough to want to stay in Beacon Hills, but honestly part of me wants that too." He swallows. "That was what I was good at—helping people directly, fighting the supernatural and the weird and whatever else that town wanted to throw at us. I can't go a _day_ without texting Liam and checking in—I've missed class before to do research for them. I don't want to spend my career sitting in a desk and filing paperwork or something else equally useless or passive. I want to help _people_ , like how we used to. And I don't know if this is the way to do it anymore."

"I get that," Lydia says, still staring at the ceiling. "I want to be useful, too. Unfortunately, when there's no dead or dying people nearby I don't really feel like I'm helpful at all."

"Lydia, you're a researching mathematician who's getting their undergraduate degree two years early," he says, turning his head to look at her profile lying next to him.

She doesn't respond to him.

"Also you do remember that you can knock people out simply by screaming, right?"

That one elicits a small laugh from her. "I can't exactly go around screaming at people all day. If it was Beacon Hills I could probably get away with it, but out here, I don't think it would go down as well."

"Honestly it's amazing that no one in Beacon Hills figured out what was happening."

"I know. Didn't Scott transform in the middle of the crowded library once?"

"Yep. But your mom told them it was a cougar or something and it was forgotten in a matter of days."

They share a short laugh.

"I wish I was that blissfully ignorant," Lydia says. "Life would be a million times easier."

 _Would it?_ Stiles thinks. In many ways, it would be, and obviously so. And he has to admit he's thought about it a million times before—what it would be like if this impending sense of responsibility at the risk of world's doom had not been pressing on them like thousand-ton boulder since they were sixteen. But it was a reality that was hard to grasp given what he knew, what he has seen. He shifts his back, nesting back further into the bed.

They couldn't change what has happened. They couldn't change the lives that were lost or the innocence that was taken from them.

They lay there next to each other in the silence that settles for a moment. From the corners of his peripheral vision, Stiles can see the edges of her hair, haloing her head and glowing red under the lights from the street outside. He could flex his fingers and graze her arm if he dared, that's how close they are.

Getting used to not having someone in your life is difficult—especially when they were such a constant presence for years. Stiles had struggled for months trying to come to terms with not being with her anymore, not being able to talk to her like they used to anymore. In ways, the distance had helped him understand the physical divide, yet the pull he felt towards her emotionally was worsened. Several times a day he would think of something to call or text her about—something funny, something sad, and sometimes even nothing at all. But he couldn't. The day he finally deleted her phone number from his contacts was the day he thought she was out of his life for good.

And yet, here he is, lying on a bed next to Lydia Martin. He just can't shake her.

She exhales, slowly, a sound that relaxes him. "You're thinking pretty hard over there," she says. Stiles smiles in the dark.

"Just trying to imagine what it would be like to not know what we know. Surprisingly, it's a very hard image to grasp."

"Mhm," she breathes. Stiles turns his head to look at her. "You know, I like what you said about wanting to help people. I understand that—I feel it, too. But I think you're fixating on this idea that it should be immediate. It's not going to be like it was a few years ago. There's not going to always be a new, focused goal every few months. We all have to think of ways we can be useful—don't worry if it doesn't happen immediately. Just go after what you know you want and it will all figure itself out."

Her words linger in his mind. She always had a knack for making things seem so simple, whether it be calculus or supernatural monster wrangling. It is an absolute truth that whatever Lydia Martin did Stiles would be left amazed and burning with a profound sense of pride. And here she was doing her very best to lay to rest all of his apprehensions and fears. And as usual, her very best was working.

Her hand, which had been resting up near her head, shifts. He feels the tips of her fingers brush the hairs at the sides of his head. Lydia retracts quickly as if the contact had burned her. "Sorry," she manages weakly.

He can only stare at her in the dark.

And then, he is kissing her.

It doesn't immediately feel stupid. Though it should, probably. She tastes like vodka, something he's almost sure is reflected in his own mouth. His hands cupped her face, tips of his fingers resting in her hair. Alarms are going off in his head. He should pull away, he's ruining it. _Stupid, stupid—_

But he feels the weight of her hand as it goes to rest on his cheek, and he's sighing into her mouth and kissing her harder, rolling until he's partially on top of her.

Her hands are as soft as he remembers against his face, gently tracing his jawline. _This is too far_ , he thinks again. This is too much. Yet his hands are still at the back of her head, tangled in a mess of her hair and he was having a hard time trying to care about anything other than the feel of her mouth and the taste of her breath.

The reservations he has vanish for a second time as he feels her fingers run through his hair. He smiles against her mouth.

He was bringing one of his hands lower, ghosting the column of her neck when she catches him off guard and flips them over without once breaking away from him. A noise of surprise sounds in his throat but it goes ignored as she kisses him with more fervor, her hands running down the length of his face until they're dusting the tops of his collarbones. Her lips kiss a trail from his mouth down to the pulse point on his neck, his own hands running up and down her waist as he tries to just mentally keep up with her. She goes lower, kissing and lightly sucking down his neck and to his collar bone. A hand tugs at his shirt, wanting it off, and it's before he complies that he pauses.

"Wait," he gasps out, her hands hovering under the hem of his shirt. He catches her face with a hand and pulls her back to eye level.

Her eyes are dark, pupil's dilated, the green irises swimming.

He leans forward and presses a kiss, slowly, gently, against her lips. Then one on her jaw, beneath her ear, on her–

Lydia pulls back abruptly, until she's sitting back and up on her knees. It's only now that Stiles realizes she had been straddling him.

"What's wrong?" He asks, sitting up on his elbows. She just looks at him, breath hitching, eyes unreadable.

"Hey," he tries again, gentler, sitting up beneath her fully. "Lydia, what is it?"

It's when her eyes start to pool that he knows it's over before she even says anything.

"Stiles," she says quietly, "I'm sorry, I can't."

She's detached from him and off his lap in a matter of seconds, during which he's realized he could not move. "Wait," he says weakly, watching as she's collecting her purse and jacket. "Lydia–"

"I appreciate all your help tonight Stiles, I really do." She's not looking at him, fussing with the straps on her shoes. "But I… I have to go now."

"Where are you going to go? Lydia?"

She's at the door by the time he has enough sense to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Lydia," he tries again. "Wait, please, I'm sorry—"

It isn't until she has hand on the doorknob that she looks back at him. "Goodbye, Stiles."

The door opens, then closes, and Stiles sits in the hotel room alone.


	3. iii

i absolutely did not intend for this final part to take so long, but graduating college takes a lot out of you. but thank you for reading this far!

a special thank you to YourArtMatters23 ("it's what got me here") and laurenthehunter! i really do appreciate your reviews.

* * *

 _part iii._

* * *

 _(Two years ago)_

It is an unusually peaceful day.

The sun is casting its June warmth over the day's proceedings, there isn't a cloud to be seen in the California blue sky, and Stiles swears he can even hear birds chirping merrily in the distance. Despite all the thoughts to the contrary, this day is finally here. Graduation. A day most think of for celebrations and loved ones.

But what it really consists of is boring speech after boring speech.

Currently, Principal Thomas is addressing their graduating class with the same speech Stiles is almost positive is given every year. Previously, the school district superintendent addressed their graduating clad with the same speech Stiles is almost positive is given every year. Some originality would have been appreciated, but perhaps Stiles shouldn't be so picky.

Scott is two rows in front of him, and Stiles sighs through his nose in the hopes that his friend is able to hear his boredom. There's no visible reaction, but there's a swift kick to his chair from behind—Malia, who he is sure is appreciating this day more than any of them.

And ahead of him on the lifted stage, sitting at rapturous attention to Thomas' words, is Lydia.

She takes a moment to adjust the hem of her gown, and in doing so she notices him watching her. She pulls a face. He just smiles at her.

The four of them being here today at times felt nothing short of a miracle. The rest of the town being here is another matter on its own. They came so close to never seeing this day countless times.

But here they are, together.

Soon, Principal Thomas concludes his remarks. The graduates stand, move their tassels to the left, and toss their caps high into the air.

Maybe this moment is frivolous in comparison to what's out there, what Stiles knows is really out there. But he soaks it in, second by second, because he knows it is never coming again.

-x-

Lydia finds him after, extending out his thrown cap. "Dropped something," she says, her smile shining in her eyes.

Stiles wordlessly takes it from her. Then, he grabs her by her outstretched hand and leads her from the crowd.

He isn't sure where he's taking her, or why he suddenly felt the need to leave at all. But they end up at the opposite end of the football field in the covered pathway leading back to the school. It's quieter here, secluded. He turns to her.

But he doesn't know exactly what to say. The moment is monumental, and he's finding it hard to come up with anything to say to mark it. Here they are, clutching their diploma covers, alive and breathing. Together. The thought makes him laugh to himself, incredulous. Him and her, together.

"What?" Lydia prompts at his staring.

Stiles shakes his head, aware that the idiotic smile has not slipped from his face. "Nothing." He pulls her to him, embracing her. She returns the action, her hands sliding around his waist.

"You're always looking at me like that."

He shrugs before pressing his face into the side of her hair. "What can I say? I'm just so impressed by you." Lydia squirms slightly, his breath tickling the strands by her ear.

"Speaking of being impressed," she says, pulling out of his arms just enough to look him in the eye. "I'm still very proud of you for getting into George Washington."

He feigns offense. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Of course not. It's just with the amount of absences we all had it's a miracle we didn't lose credit and get held back."

"Valid point."

"And," she continues, a little more seriously this time. "I know it's something you've wanted. I'm just glad it worked out for you. I'm proud of you."

And she says it so earnestly that, despite already knowing it to be true, he warms under her praise.

"Hey," he takes both of her hands in his, "I'm proud of _you_. Entering MIT as a junior? Lydia, that's an amazing accomplishment."

Color rises to her cheeks, a grin to her lips.

All of them had reason to celebrate today. For a while this didn't seem like an achievable goal, didn't feel like a fixed point in time they count definitively count on passing. Getting their diplomas didn't seem like a guaranteed milestone they would reach. But here they are, together, safe, alive. All headed out to bigger and greater things.

"I want to come," she says suddenly, a strand of her hair flying into her eyes in a breeze. Stiles sweeps it behind her ear as he listens. "I want to come with you when you leave. Help you unpack, get settled."

"Really?" He says, eyebrows raised. "You want to sit in a car with me for days, driving across the country, getting very little sleep, then getting to D.C. in the middle of their typically stifling summer only to move all of my heavy boxes up probably several flights of stairs and into a cramped little dorm—"

She covers his mouth with her palm, smiling. " _Yes_ , you dope. I want to do all of that with you."

He smiles through her hand, eventually pulling it away from his face. "As long as you won't get sick of me."

"If I haven't by now, I think you're okay."

He goes to say something else, reveling in the warmth that radiates from her presence, but a call from behind them cuts him off.

"Stiles! Lydia!"

The pair turns. Scott, dressed in his own maroon cap and gown, waves from where he, Malia, and their parents have congregated back on the football field. Liam and Hayden are also present, the latter adjusting the former's necktie.

"We're getting pizza!" Malia yells this time, her hands cupped around her mouth. Melissa seems to frown at this as other graduates and their families spare glances in their direction at the scene. "Come on!"

"Come on," Lydia says, slipping an arm around Stiles and leading him back.

He follows her, stepping out from the shelter of the tunnel and back into the sunlight

 _(Now)_

Stiles' head rattles against the window of the subway car, mimicking his internal state perfectly. _Stupid,_ he thinks. If there was any moment earlier in his life that put his reasoning capabilities into question it has most certainly been surpassed this evening.

He's ruined it. Any chance there was of remaining friends with Lydia, with keeping her in his life, is now gone. All because he gave in to a stupid idea that maybe they could have what they used to again after just one night of being together. Great.

He taps his metro card, worn and now completely empty, against his leg as the subway car passes over blocks of houses and apartment buildings on its way east, considering the outcome. At the very least, he supposes he ended the night with something new. He had started the evening with a dying phone, very little money, and no sense of purpose in his future. Now to go with the dead phone and dying purpose, he has an aching sense that he just killed any chance of being with the love of his life.

He hardly registers getting up for his stop, stepping out onto the platform back into the chilly night air. He's too busy trying to remember if there has ever been a time in his life where he has felt as low as he feels now, ever been a time where he has messed up this bad. Nothing is coming to him.

It's when he steps off the last stair from the platform that his phone vibrates from his pocket and pulls him from his trip into self-deprecation. It's Scott, and the familiar name lit on the screen brings Stiles a welcome sense of comfort.

"Scott, hey," he says once the phone is against his ear.

"Stiles!" Scott's usually friendly demeanor rings through the phone as strong as ever. Stiles tries not to hold it against him. "Hey, I just got all of your missed calls, sorry about that."

There is a lot of background noise from Scott's end—a lot of talking, laughter, some street noises. Stiles frowns. "Where are you?"

"Oh, we decided to go out instead."

Stiles, who had been walking down the street, stops in his tracks. "What."

"Yeah," Scott is saying, "we decided to see a show instead, found some cheap balcony seats from a scalper. I forgot to let you know, but we've been out of the apartment all night." "

There is a loud burst of background noise over the line that Stiles hardly has the energy to decipher. He exhales, the breath leaving his defeated frame. "Oh," he says, "Great. Of course."

"You okay?" Scott asks. "I thought you'd be fine, seeing as you had your school thing tonight."

"Yeah, it's just…" he trails, thinking of everything that had happened in the past few hours. He can feel his exhaustion, the fatigue dripping through his body and pooling at his feet. But he couldn't even find the words to explain it if he wanted to. "It's nothing. I'll see you back at Kira's."

Scott says goodbye, and Stiles hangs up the phone. He is alone again.

-x-

Kira's apartment building is thankfully only a short walk from the station. It is a relatively small building in comparison to its neighbors—only three floors in height, tucked in between two larger walk ups. Kira's unit is on the third floor, and with no elevator, Stiles heaves himself up the stairwell one pathetic step at a time.

Would he do this night again, if he could? He wants to say yes, thinking of everything he could have said or could of done to make her stay. But then he pictures her expression as she had turned to face him, her hand on the doorknob of the hotel room, and knows that despite how hard he may wish it he will never get the chance. It doesn't matter anymore. Lydia went back to Boston, and eventually he'll return to D.C., and they won't meet again until Christmas. What he wants to say doesn't matter anymore.

Then he opens the door at the top of the stairs, and there she is.

Lydia Martin, sitting against the radiator outside of Kira's front door with her legs folded beneath her. Lydia Martin, looking uncharacteristically small and lost, hands clasped around a small plastic card.

And Stiles doesn't know what to say.

"I knocked," she just says, not looking up at him. "But no one answered. They must be passed out in there."

 _Is this real?_ He figures it must be as he can feel the door to the stairwell digging into his back, having not yet made it past the doorframe since discovering this surprise.

Dazed, he slowly goes to slide down the wall and on to the floor next to her. "What's that?" He asks, watching her fiddling with the plastic card between her fingers.

"A credit card my dad sent me when I left for college. One that has a limit that would definitely allow for a car or bus ticket from New York to Boston." She isn't looking at him.

Stiles says nothing for a moment, letting the implications sink it.

"Well," he says eventually, reaching into his pocket for his keys. "I can almost beat that. It turns out Scott and Kira have been out of the apartment all night. We could have come here at any time."

Lydia laughs shortly, the sound dying the second it leaves her throat.

They sit in the quiet hallway together, her knee leaning against his. Stiles figures he could sit here forever but the small of his back aches, still not forgiving him for what he had put it through back in the train station.

"Come on," he says, slowly getting up to his feet. "Let's go inside. Scott said they would be back soon."

He extends a hand back down for her, which she accepts, hoisting herself off the floor. Stiles wordlessly turns to Kira's front door and unlocks it with the spare key Kira had given him that morning.

For Brooklyn, Stiles supposes that Kira's loft is spacious. For a more moderate housing market, it was hardly anything more than a largish living space and a small, cramped bathroom. The door opened into the small kitchen with island counter seating, which then flowed into the bedroom/living room. Stiles' small bag of belongings currently sat on the small futon. The first thing he does is plug his phone into his charger, already set up at the kitchen counter. Lydia, he notices, slowly enters the space behind him. She stands at the closed front door awkwardly as if waiting for something.

"So," he starts.

"So," she agrees.

Stiles searches the kitchen wordlessly, trying to think of something for his hands to do. "Uh, would you like some water? I think I know where she keeps the glasses."

"There are bottles in the fridge." She points to it, and Stiles offers a smile.

"Right."

When he turns back around from having retrieved two bottles from the fridge, he is temporarily struck by the sight of her—small and unsure at the other side of the small island counter. There is the slightest of moments where he thinks it might be because of him, because of what he did.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For earlier, back at the hotel."

"It's alright," she doesn't meet his eye, instead looking down at the counter in front of her. "At least, It wasn't just you. I was there too."

He doesn't know what to say next, really. Even moments ago, when he tried to imagine what he would say if he could see her one last time he hadn't made it this far. But there isn't a point in dwelling on this subject anymore. He slides a bottle to her.

Something else has been weighing down on them from the very beginning of all of this. From the circumstances of their meeting to where they are now, separated by an island counter and years of history. She still has not raised her eyes from the plastic cupped in her hands.

"So what has all this been about?" He asks her, softly. "Why are you in New York?"

She sighs, a hand coming up to run through her hair. She was quiet for a moment before finally speaking. "For the last year I've been a part of a research group spearheaded by a professor in my department. A big name professor, actually. He's working on a computational biology project. We've been helping him research and put together his work for publication. And I love it. I love what we're doing. I love being a part of it." She paused. Stiles watched her carefully. "There's a math conference tomorrow, at MIT. People from all over the country—from hospitals, research institutions, private funds, you name it— will be there. And I was selected from our research group to present alongside our professor. Out of everyone, I was the one he picked to be the face of our work."

"Lydia," Stiles can't help it—he swells with pride. "That's amazing."

But she shakes her head. "I feel like a fraud, Stiles. I don't know—" she cuts herself off with another sigh, and Stiles is struck with the realization that he's never seen her like this before. He's never seen her unable to get the words out like this. "I don't know if what I'm doing is what I want to do. It's a great project and I know that and I understand the doors it can open for me but I don't know if I deserve to step through them. I don't know if this is what I want, or if this is _how_ I want to get it. I think the work we're doing is amazing, but it hasn't felt the way I thought it would. I don't feel like this, in particular, is my calling. I actually came to the city today to meet with graduate admissions at Columbia because I wanted someone to tell me what else is out there, because I'm worried that I limited myself. I'm twenty years old and graduating from college in three months—am I moving too fast? Do I really know what I want? I wasn't going to go back tonight. I have an email drafted to my professor ready to pull out of the presentation, but I was sitting in a bar tonight and I realized how stupid I was being to throw away what I've been working on for almost two years. But I missed the train, so who knows now. I've fucked it up for myself." She punctuates this with a heavy swig from her bottle, and for a moment Stiles doesn't know what to say.

"I think…" he stops, focused on the stack of coasters on the island in front of him. _What does he think_? But she beats him to it.

"When you said earlier that you weren't sure if you wanted to be in the FBI program, I…" she trails, and he understands that it doesn't matter what he thinks in this moment. What she is saying to him now is something she hasn't said to anyone. "It just solidifies that idea that…that we have no direction anymore. That what we've been through, all of us, living through what we have—it's never going to be normal for us. You were the surest out of all of us on what your path would be and even you feel it too. We can't be normal. We're never going to have that."

"No, come on," he shakes his head. "You've known what you wanted for years, you told me yourself Sophomore year. You told me you were going to win the Fields Medal, remember?"

"And I told my mom when I was three I was going to be a horse when I grew up. That doesn't mean anything, it doesn't matter."

"Lydia, hey," he has to come around to her side of the island, has to gently turn her face towards him with a finger to get her to look at him. "Listen. You're smart, you are capable of anything—"

Lydia is shaking her head. "It _doesn't matter,_ Stiles. _Everyone_ is smart there. _Everyone_ is capable of great things. I sit in labs with people who've already received grants for independent research while I'm just trying to maintain my usual grade point average. I'm hardly a blip on the radar of this school. But that isn't even the issue. I just don't know if I've wasted my time or not. I don't think I know what I'm doing."

Stiles understands now, watching as her eyes mist and her chin quivers, that she is just as lost and just as afraid as he is. That somewhere within her the immensity of what she is facing is drowning her, just as his own fears are drowning him. He thinks of how it felt for him this morning, to get up and feel his own inadequacy radiating from his core and out through his skin. If any part of her feels as he had then, as he does now, he understands exactly what tonight has all been about. His heart breaks.

"You told me tonight," he starts, slowly, "that if you go after what you want everything will work itself out. I know you believe that, and I know I believe in you. Don't think about what everyone else is doing right now. Just answer this—is this what you want?"

He doesn't realize he is hanging onto whatever her answer might be until he watches her go to say something only to stop herself, once, twice. "Don't think," he says, "just answer."

Something behind her eyes seems to click, and she looks at him in a way that he both recognizes in the pit of his stomach and has never seen before. "I don't know," she says finally. "I don't…"

"Lydia," he says, gently. "It's okay."

"No, no it's not. I don't know, Stiles. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I haven't made any decisions about graduate school and I—I have no idea what I'm going to do. I don't have a plan. I can't see what's going to happen in two months, let alone two years. And I just feel…" she wipes a tear away from her eye, so quickly Stiles almost doesn't register one had fallen at all. "Alone. Completely alone, all the time. And I don't mean to tell you this as if it's your fault, or as if I'm looking for your sympathy or anything because I know I don't deserve it. I'm the one who ended things between us, I'm the one who caused it to be like this. That isn't… I just don't really know what to do anymore, about anything."

And there it is. They have both been dancing around it all night, but she said it. She broke up with him, one year ago, over one of his usual weekend trips to Boston. She broke up with him, and he said nothing as she had turned around and walked away.

It's out there now, in the open.

"When we broke up…" Stiles trails off, unsure of what to even say to finish that thought. What would even explain it? What words could he conjure up to tell her what a mistake it had been? That he shouldn't have let them fall apart so easily. That he should have fought harder for what he thought they had.

"I didn't want to," Lydia says, always aware of when he needed help. "Which sounds meaningless. I know it was my idea, and I know I can't expect that to matter at all, not now, but…" She sighed, recollecting herself. "I didn't want us to grow apart slowly, and I couldn't even figure out what I wanted and I didn't want you to be taken along for the ride. I just… at the time it made sense, but I knew it was wrong when I walked away. I should have turned around, but I didn't."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, Lydia… I should have tried harder, fought harder for us. I'm supposed to know you better than anyone but I couldn't look into it enough to see what was really going on. I should have known you weren't okay. I should have…" he trails again, all the what ifs and should haves hanging in his silence. They wouldn't be enough.

"No, Stiles," she says. "You did exactly what I thought you were going to do. You let me go."

It almost kills him to be reminded of that. That it is because of his own inability to hold on to them that they were here in the first place.

They are still standing just inches apart, the glow from Kira's kitchen lights highlighting the green in Lydia's hazel eyes.

"I didn't want you to go back tonight, I was glad when Thomas couldn't help us." He watches her guarded expression as he speaks. He knows he shouldn't have felt it then, shouldn't even have just admitted it now, but it was true. "I missed you. I still miss you."

Her eyes are misting over again, the rims beginning to prick with redness. "Stiles," she says, just above a whisper. He can feel her voice on his skin.

He is leaning forward before he can talk himself out of it. _Don't do this again_ , a voice is screaming in the back of his mind. _Don't do this to yourself._ But it was like he is caught in a magnetic pull. He can't pull back. He can see her own eyes, still misty, begin to slip closed—or maybe he is imagining it? It doesn't matter, they're so close, inches away…

But it's the sound of the doorknob rattling that pulls them from each other.

Scott and Kira had been talking as they came into the apartment, thankfully to immediately transfixed with each other to notice how Stiles and Lydia move apart as if the magnetic force had been suddenly reversed.

"Hi, guys." Lydia subtly wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her coat. "It's good to see you."

Scott, recovering from the shock before Kira, crosses the small kitchen in two steps and envelops Lydia in a massive hug. "Lydia! What are you doing here?" Stiles can feel his eyes on him when he asks the question, something Stiles makes sure to avoid.

"Scott!" Lydia matches the tone of their friend perfectly, but ignores his question. "I've missed you."

"I didn't know you were coming to town," says Kira as she pulls Lydia into a hug of her own.

"Oh, it was pretty last minute. It was just a day trip initially, but…"

Stiles jumps in to help. "Lydia missed her train back and we happened to run into each other."

"At the FBI thing?" Scott asks, looking rightfully confused. Stiles looks to Lydia, an old reflex of his.

"Oh no, no," Lydia waves her hand, dismissively. "I had been trying to get a room for the night at the hotel, since I missed my train and there isn't another until the morning, but I didn't realize that I lost my wallet and couldn't even get a room. We ran into each other in the lobby in some weird, freak coincidence."

Kira looks impressed. "Yeah, wow, that is weird. Funny how life works out like that, right?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows. _Real funny._

Scott, he can tell, is not entirely satisfied with that explanation. It might have had something to do with his ability to detect lying with his supernatural hearing, but for the sake of Stiles' sanity he pretends that it can't possibility be the explanation. Still, he feels the heat gather at the tip of his ears under her best friend's gaze.

"So do you need to stay here?" Kira asks next, immediately going around to her small linen closet next to the bathroom door. "Because I have extra blankets and pillows and what not. It's no problem. What time did you say your train was tomorrow?"

Lydia seems to be watching Kira's movements intently. "I didn't, but six."

Kira smiles, handing her a pillow and a fleece blanket. "We'll set an alarm."

-x-

When they all begin to settle for bed, Stiles gives Lydia the futon and takes the small space on the floor in between the couch and the TV. It's a small enough sliver of floor that if he extends his right arm fully, his forearm is submerged within the shelves of the entertainment stand. His left, has his hand splayed under the futon. It's admittedly cramped, and for the umpteenth time that night his back ached from being pressed against a hard surface. But he doesn't care.

Scott and Kira were already asleep—he could hear Scott's faint snoring mixed with her steady breathing. What he doesn't hear is any evidence that Lydia was asleep as well.

He thinks about what she told him. How she feels so lost, so confused over who she is and what she is doing. It pains him, almost physically to think that she feels as alone as she said she does—even more so that she had felt as if she couldn't reach out to him about it. It doesn't matter if they weren't together anymore. He will always want to be there for her, to make sure she is alright.

Stiles angles his head towards the futon, where he can faintly make out her raised silhouette. He thinks she could be asleep but it's hard to gauge the evenness of her breathing. His pulse pounds in his ears as he strains to listen.

"Lydia?" he whispers gently.

He hears her shifting, sees the shape of her head turning. "Stiles?" Her response comes so faint he isn't even sure he hears it at first.

"I've always believed in you," he says suddenly, his rasp of a voice breaking the silence. "You know that, right?"

Her arm hangs off the side of the futon. He raises a hand and gently brushes a finger along her wrist. She doesn't jump, doesn't react. She is warm, smooth.

 _Please know that._

-x-

When they awake, roughly three hours later, the sun has yet to rise.

Scott and Kira come with them to Grand Central, both to say goodbye to Lydia and to help pay their way to the station. (A gesture Lydia fails to talk Scott out of.) The four of them, with the new subway tickets in hand, are the only ones on the first subway into the city.

Stiles spends their short time on the Lexington line sitting side-by-side with Lydia, his leg flush against hers as the train jostles and bumps along the track. They have not spoken much all morning, and the trend continues into their commute. Stiles is afraid if he opens his mouth he will be unable to control what comes out.

There isn't anything he could say that would be enough, that would even be fair.

When they arrive, the sun is beginning to emerge from beneath the horizon.

The main terminal of Grand Central station is as lively as one might expect at 5:53 in the morning. Being a Saturday, there are no whispers of the weekday commuters that began to trickle in shortly. It is quiet, only a few groups of travelers with their accompanying luggage huddling by the information desk. Still the little sound echoed off the walls, off the ceiling, and the space felt full. Though Stiles supposes it wouldn't matter either way.

In a way, despite the thin crowd, it looks the same to him as it had the night before. Except now, everything has changed.

Lydia is listening intently as Scott hands her the new train ticket he just exchanged for her at the counter. _She's leaving_ , Stiles thinks. This is it.

"'Bye Lydia," Scott is now saying, pulling her into a hug. "Let me know when you're coming back to Beacon Hills, I'll drive up to visit you."

"Of course I will," Lydia smiles at him earnestly. She turns to Kira and pulls her into a tight hug.

"It _was_ really good to see you," says Kira. "Even if it was only for a short time."

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything about being in town," Lydia pulls from the hug. "But next time, I promise I will."

"We can have a whole weekend to ourselves," Kira smiles. "No distractions, just hanging out. We can get Malia to come, too."

"I'll hold you to that," Lydia says.

Then, she turns to Stiles.

From the moment he saw her nearly eight hours ago, almost from the very spot they were standing in now, he had been dreading this moment.

"Well," Stiles says finally. "I guess you should go. You don't want to miss your train again."

She looks up at him, hazel eyes peering into his with the warmest sense of a shared history. "No," she agrees, voice quiet. The word nearly gets lost in what little early morning traffic there was in the station, but he hears it all the same.

"Hey," Stiles says, quietly. But he can't think of anything to say that would even remotely comfort her in this moment. There isn't even anything he could think of to save himself. So he pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her and holding on for dear life.

"Goodbye Stiles," she says into his neck.

He feels a kiss press against his cheekbone as she pulls away, and with a final departing look, Lydia turns and walks down the ramp to the main platform. He watches until her figure disappears from his sight.

A hand comes up to his shoulder from behind—Kira, he discovers when he looks back. She stands with Scott, both looking sympathetic towards him.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

Stiles considers this. "No."

"Want to get breakfast?" Scott offers. "I'll buy. There's that 24-hour place around here somewhere, right? The one we found a while ago?"

He says nothing, and lets his two friends lead him from the station and into the sunlight.

-x-

It is hard for Lydia to recall a time in her life where she had felt more alone, more lost, than she does in this moment.

She had lost a far bit in the past several years—her father, Jackson, Aiden, Allison— but never had she felt so completely defeated as she had two days ago. She used to cling desperately to her own fantasy of what would come next, of a future in which she was safe and secure and thriving. So much so that the second she thought it might not be possible for her, everything fell apart. She had sat in the waiting room of the Columbia admissions department desperate for something to make itself known to her. She didn't care what it was so long as it helped her make sense of what she wanted. Yet the last-minute meeting did nothing for it—just more empty promises and toting of possibilities that didn't feel like they were hers to have.

She lost it. It was gone.

It wasn't until hours later that she realized what she had been hoping for came after all, in the form of a familiar face in the middle of the busiest commuter train station in the country. Stiles gave her the strength she needed to follow through.

Now, her train ride back to Boston is a mix of restless cat naps and staring out the window attempting to pull her anxiety from her system. Unfortunately for her it is very much still present once she steps off the platform at South Station, tying her stomach up in knots as she makes her way back to her small apartment on the perimeter of the MIT campus, dresses, attempts to make herself look as if she had in fact showered sometime in the past twenty-four hours.

She heads to her campus filled with unease.

Her professor is pacing the floor, staring at her watch nervously when Lydia finds her in the crowded foyer of Huntington Hall fifteen minutes after she was supposed to.

"There you are," Professor Glenn says upon seeing her approaching. Lydia can see her research partner, Connor, sigh in relief at her appearance. "Please tell me you're ready to go."

"Yep," she lies.

And then it's time, and she's lead on to the stage and given the slide changer.

She isn't listening to her professor introduce her and the rest of their team, who stood off to the side somewhere behind her in what's supposed to be a show of their academic cooperation, for solidarity in their work. Lydia feels alone.

And then, quite suddenly and quite distinctly, a thought rises to the front her mind.

 _She can't do this._

Heat is rising to her face quickly. Dread fills her, a sense so strong it nearly takes her breath away. She's making a mistake; she doesn't belong on this stage.

Her professor is looking at her, expectantly.

She can feel her voice catch in her throat, dying. She doesn't have anything to say—the words aren't there. "Um." She blinks. Her stomach is in knots. Her mouth drying. She isn't cut out for this, she had been right all along, perhaps she could take a gap year or five—

There's a squeaking of a chair seat that fills the silence in the auditorium. She looks to the source at the back of the auditorium, expecting to see someone leaving out of the sheer prospect of having to sit through fifteen minutes of her standing up there in silence, but instead, in the terribly dim lighting, the unmistakable form of Stiles Stilinski lowers himself into an empty chair in the back row.

 _"I've always believed in you."_

And then, clarity.

He hadn't given her the strength to return here. That she has always had.

What Stiles had given her was surety. And standing on this stage she is absolutely sure, in this moment, that everything will be okay. One day—maybe tomorrow, maybe next month—she will be okay. And whatever may come from today, if she fails or if she succeeds, one day it will not matter. She has time to decide. Today is just another day.

The cloud of doubt suddenly clears. She knows she can do this.

"Um." She clears her throat, already feeling the smile that is blooming on her face. _She has this_. "Good afternoon. I'm Lydia Martin. I would like to take a moment before I begin to thank Professor Glenn for all of her guidance and direction, without which none of this would even be possible."

She takes a second to lead the audience in a short round of applause.

She's got this. This is Lydia's to give to them.

-x-

She goes to find Stiles immediately after stepping off stage, weaving her way through the crowds of academics and colleagues as if she is floating. She hardly registers the small smiles being sent her way or the looks of recognition she receives from the people she passes by. It is all fog to her, with Stiles' figure acting as a lighthouse.

And when she reaches him, it is like she is seeing him through the crowds of a train station all over again, the haze of strangers parting for the certainty of his being.

"Hey," he says. Like they had planned to meet here.

"What are you doing here?" Lydia' face is hurting from the smile she is (so poorly) suppressing.

"I made it about two blocks down the street before I realized I couldn't just let you leave again," he says. "I jumped on the next train I could—Scott offered to pay, you know how he is—but, uh, here I am."

 _Here you are_.

"Thanks for coming," she can only say.

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, "it was worth it. I mean I'm not entirely sure I could repeat back to you what you said, but you did a great job. I could tell that you like doing this—that came across clearly. I know you probably still have your reservations about what you're doing, but I think you'll be fine."

She watches him as he speaks, noting the specks of gold in his irises and the smattering of moles across his jaw, his brow. She soaks up every detail like she is seeing him for the first time. "I know," she says.

She can see him smile. "Good."

"And what about you?" She takes a half step forward. "What will you do?"

"About the career seminar?"

She nods, and Stiles exhales.

"I'm sure there will be another one."

"Stiles," she says. He looks at her. "I've always believed in you. You know that, right?"

He smiles at his own words.

"I do," she says, "I have."

He leans forward until his forehead touches against hers. She can feel his breath on her face now.

"I think we're going to be okay," he says.

"I know."

A part of her is anticipating his confusion at her sentiment. But when it doesn't come, when he instead meets her gaze head on, their proximity dizzying, she realizes he might have known all along what she is just figuring out now.

She leans forward, closing the gap between them and pressing her lips to his. He feels like home.


End file.
